


Cracks Under the Surface

by RemembrancerLirael



Category: Koozå - Cirque du Soleil
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, F/M, Sad Ending, Shameless Smut, Smut, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:48:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24563386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RemembrancerLirael/pseuds/RemembrancerLirael
Summary: Trickster is on the verge of fracturing under the pressures of caring for Koozå. The master of chaos requires an outlet for his frustration. Kashmir has a possible solution.
Relationships: Kashmir/The Trickster (Koozå)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	Cracks Under the Surface

Another Innocent has come and gone, and Trickster wanders the shadows alone. The Koozins avoid Trickster in these moments. His dissatisfaction is palpable. Even a well-crafted mask of disinterest cannot hide the resentment simmering beneath. His creations never intrude on his solitude and he is thankful for their discretion. But this time is different. This time, the anger does not dissipate into the world around them.

Kashmir watches him pace in the shadows. He lazily twirls the baton. Sparks of energy manifest, crackle, and disperse. He sighs and returns the baton to his pocket before calling out to her. Despite her silent footsteps, Kashmir can never truly sneak up on him, not in a realm of his own making.

“All is well, my love, you need not fuss over me,” he grins, a smile that does not quite reach his eyes.

“Do not lie to me, it is insulting and futile,” she snaps. “You frightened the last Innocent, far more than those that came before.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You did, and you are aware of it, or you would not be as you are.”

Trickster’s hands clench at his sides. He takes a moment to center himself.

“You crave control. Do not interrupt me,” she lays a hand on his chest to prevent his interjection. “You have always craved control. The baton grants you the ability to have that power, but you do not use it. If you exert control on the Koozin, they will not adore you. Instead, they will fear you, and you crave that adulation no matter how you insist you do not. You cannot command the Innocents or they will not learn their lessons and return to their own worlds.”

At Trickster’s silence, Kashmir presses forward, “There is a solution you have not considered: me.”

“Ludicrous. I will not permit such a proposal.”

“Trickster. Look at me,” she urges, taking his hands in hers. “We are too alike, you and I. Every dark thought, every chaotic impulse, are as much yours as they are my own.”

“I cannot simply control you, Kashmir. You would disobey, and what then?”

“You would have to take it from me outright,” she replies as neutrally as if she proposed they have a cup of tea.

“I created you, Kashmir. I cannot break my own creation.”

“You think too highly of yourself,” she chuckles. “You cannot break me. That is not a valid excuse.”

“How could you ask this of me?” he whispers as his fingers caress her cheek. “Ask me to use any of the other Koozin, or to take a lover from the other realm. Do not ask me to harm you.”

“Enjoyable, controlled pain is not harm.”

“Enjoyable?”

“I believe I was quite clear in my words.”

Time slows as Trickster considers her suggestion. One deep breath, then two, and his eyes narrow on the woman before him. His gaze is uncertain, and Kashmir catches the flicker of concern that remains.

“Do not make me beg, Trickster.”

“I think I would rather enjoy that,” he snarks, a ghost of a sneer on his lips yet again. “But I could never deny you for long.”

“I suppose we shall see, will we not?”

Trickster advances. There is still hesitancy in his eyes, but his movements are measured and fluid. He crowds Kashmir, forcing her to retreat, until her back is pressed against one of the bataclan’s columns.

“And what if I ask too much of you? What if I crave pleasures you cannot grant me?”

“If it will ease your mind, we may select a word as a signal to conclude the game.”

“One day, you will have to tell me how you came to know of such activities.”

“No,” she smirks, her eyes twinkling. “I do not believe I shall.”

Trickster chuckles at her attempts to goad him, “A word, then, pet?”

“Crown. Thinking of the King will rapidly cool the both of us.”

His nose wrinkles in distaste at the image but he gestures in agreement. He places one hand on either side of her head, mere inches away from her.

“This is your last chance to end this before it is begun.”

“You have not frightened me yet and I rather doubt you are capable of doing so,” she challenges.

The first kiss is an electric current between them, more a battle of wills than seduction. She wraps her hands around his neck and draws him against her. Trickster growls and instead traps her wrists above her head. He tenderly brushes her tangled hair back from her shoulder and trails kisses along her neck. When she shifts, trying to pull free of his grip, he bites her shoulder hard. And he hesitates.

Trickster had braced himself to be unnerved by the effects of his mistreatment of her. Regardless of his fantasies, he has never acted on his darker desires, much less with one he admires as dearly as Kashmir. But she does not tense or retreat as anticipated. On the contrary, she relaxes in his grip and the slightest shade of pink colors her cheeks. 

Of all the Koozin, Kashmir has always been the easiest to decipher. They are so alike that to understand her is almost to understand himself. And what he discovers is not distaste, or even passive tolerance of his proclivities, but unabashed desire. She craves this of him. She wants him to take command of her, to push her to her limits. The realization nearly makes him dizzy with want.

For a moment, the baton flares in Trickster’s pocket. It murmurs in his mind and urges him to possess her completely. He touches the instrument through the fabric of his jacket and hears his creation’s mind as an extension of his own. It would be simple to enthrall her to him, to ensure she never thinks of or desires another. But the moment passes before he permits it to take root. The thought is forgotten as swiftly as it begins.

Trickster’s second bite is higher on her neck, a mark that will be unmistakable to the other Koozin. It is deep enough that he fears he might draw blood. She presses her eyes shut to hold back a cry. He remains motionless until she opens her eyes again and his eyes glitter with a simmering cruelty.

His head cocks to the side as he calculates his next move. Then, he grins, a cold, hard expression, and grips her wrists so harshly she briefly grimaces in distress.

“I am thankful I allow you keep your free will, my pet,” he whispers in her ear in a cruelly enticing tone. He traces his fingertips over the bruises on her shoulder and presses more deeply when she winces.

“It will be such a pleasure watch you fall apart despite your struggles. Keep still. I will not ask you again.”

She shocks him by obeying his words. Her momentary submission delights him, but he is nonetheless disappointed at losing an opportunity to discipline her. His hands slide down her shoulders and he buries his nails into her skin. If she fidgets to prolong his touch, he shifts his hands elsewhere, denying whatever she most needs.

His fingers move lower, and she bites back a moan. Her eyes sparkle in unspoken provocation. Her whimpers and moans are something he must either earn or take from her. He is in no haste to pursue either option.

Trickster never permits her an opportunity to recover, spiraling her ever higher. He alternates between scratches and caresses, soft whispers and cruel chuckles at her expense. Kashmir realizes, watching him through hooded eyes, that he is not so much seducing her as playing with her, as if she is a toy for him to do with as he sees fit. She cannot bring herself to complain.

His fingers glide up her thigh, cupping her through the fabric. Her moan is almost inaudible, but he detects it regardless. Rewarding her for permitting him the sound, he strokes her more firmly. She arches her back and grinds against his hand as his lips graze her ear.

“Tell me what you need, little one, and I may consider granting your request.”

She bristles at the endearment and attempts to shove him from her. He slams her into the column and demands her response. Kashmir tries to lean in for a kiss, to goad him into continuing his seduction, to touch her, to do anything so long as it grants her a moment’s relief. In response, he moves away from her entirely, and gestures to open the bataclan’s curtain.

Trickster inclines his head towards her and vanishes into the seclusion of the bataclan. She rather less gracefully follows.

Kashmir has entered the bataclan countless times. Kooza is not a large world and she has memorized every crevice of it. This, however, is wholly unfamiliar. Crimson and gold fabric adorn the intimate space, a chaotic heap of pillows and mismatched furniture all that is visible through an ethereal glow. He allows her time to grow accustomed to the soft light.

“In some respects, this is the heart of Kooza,” he beams, all cruelty banished from his voice. “My earliest memory is within this space. It is where I retreat when I do not wish to be found.”

“It’s a bedroom,” she deadpans.

“A simple description, but yes, in a way.”

“Do you sleep, Trickster? Do you dream? It appears I hardly know you at all.”

He stiffens at her words. They are regrettably justified. Trickster has relished his liaisons with Kashmir, but he always departed before she awoke. If he wished to dally with her, he sought her out. Her words are an unwelcome reminder of the disparity between them and they tumble awkwardly into the air between them.

“Why permit me in sanctuary now, then?”

“I show you this piece of myself to demonstrate how deeply I trust you,” he murmurs, noticeably uneasy with the vulnerability of the moment. “I hoped you might grant me the same courtesy.”

Before Kashmir has time to reflect on this peace offering, he tangles his fingers in her hair and wrenches her head back. Trickster’s momentary kindness retreats and the earlier brutal persona reemerges.

“Now, little one, shall we continue?”

She nods, half dazed, as Trickster’s hands drift to her hips. His fingers dig into her skin and paint a patchwork quilt of bruises. Their kiss is a battle between them, all teeth, tongues, and blood. Kashmir disentangles herself from his embrace to catch her breath. The room spins as Trickster pounces and pushes her onto her back. With a gesture, her clothes vanish.

“You are exquisite when you blush,” he whispers as he reclines beside her. His hands draw nonsense patterns on her skin and leave goosebumps in their wake.

Kashmir is comfortable being observed. All the Koozin crave attention of some sort and she is no different. As Trickster’s creations, it was not unexpected they shared some of his more prominent qualities. But to be watched like this, to be laid bare while he remains clothed, is an entirely new thrill. There is an intensity to captivating Trickster’s attention that amplifies the sensation of his nimble fingers on her skin. She is as intoxicated by his gaze as he is in her mad.

But for all the pleasure he draws from her, Trickster knows she requires a sharper touch. He does not oblige her. In frustration, Kashmir lashes out and rolls him over. She grinds her hips into his, all but demanding he satisfy her. He chuckles beneath her and she belatedly realizes she has played right into his hands.

“And you were doing so well,” his voice drips in condescension. Kashmir’s veins turn to ice as she watches his eyes twinkle in barely concealed delight.

She rolls her eyes in exasperation and recognizes her mistake a moment too late.

“I am beginning to suspect, little one, that you intend to provoke me.”

“Provoking you is no challenge,” she snaps. She presses her hand against her mouth in disbelief at her own outburst.

“Oh, you foolish little thing,” he coos. “You will soon regret those outbursts.”

In a flurry of movement, Trickster flips her onto her stomach then pulls her into his lap. She balances precariously on his legs. It is impossible to see with her face pressed into the fabric beneath her and tangled hair covering her eyes. She twists, struggling to escape his grasp, and he lays a hand on the small of her back in warning. Several half-hearted attempts to wrestle control back pass before she huffs and quiets in his arms.

“Are you quite done?”

Kashmir opens her mouth to retort but instead whimpers as his hand slaps her arse. She half-leaps in shock more than pain, but he anticipates this and holds her down with his other hand. His fingers wrap tightly in her hair and yank back so that he can lean close to her ear.

“No,” he growls, “May I remind you that you quite literally asked for this? Begged for it, really. And you could not follow the simplest instructions. Five strikes, little one, but one more movement and that will be only the start of your repayment for such disobedience.”

Three strikes pass before Kashmir first whimpers. He alternates the blows, never landing in the same position twice. Purple marks blossom from the curve of her thighs to the expanse of her back. Her struggles finally cease after ten strikes.

“Please,” she whimpers, uncertain what she asks for. The thought of using her safeword never once crosses her mind.

“I will teach you to say please, my pet,” he growls.

What begins as calculated blows intensifies and becomes haphazard. At twenty blows, Trickster’s breath is ragged as he pauses to massage her heated skin. He is hard against her stomach and Kashmir bites back an ill-timed quip. She endeavors to turn to see the result of this scene, intrigued as to what the measured Trickster appears when out of control himself. His grip is like steel as he forces her to remain motionless.

“Tell me I have not overstepped, Kashmir,” he grinds out. Kashmir flinches at the unfamiliar tone but does not respond.

Trickster has not once called her name throughout their game. The worry in his tone is unmistakable. She swiftly shakes her head. For a moment, his grip loosens, concern dissipating into the air around them. Satisfied, his hands travel down her body, and she blushes as he discovers how aroused she has become.

“You are a wonder, my love,” he chuckles. She is too mortified to bristle at the compliment.

He traces her folds, collecting the moisture and bringing it to her lips. She sucks them clean. The hum of his sharp intake of breath makes her giddy with want.

“You have endured quite a bit, little one, perhaps reward for good behavior?”

Her nod is frantic. Trickster almost pities her desperation.

Trickster trails his hand between her legs again. After one eager please, he pumps two fingers into her core without warning. Kashmir bucks against him and tightens around his fingers. Her moans turn to begging when he briefly pinches her clit. She is wound so tightly that she might fall apart too soon, and that would not do.

As she approaches her climax, he pauses, allowing her desire to calm again.

“Not until I allow it, no matter what, understood?”

As much as he relishes her squirming in his lap, Trickster needs to watch fall apart. He pulls her from this lap and roughly pushes her onto her back. She winces from her welts and he considers making her more comfortable, then discards the idea. Kashmir would likely murder him if he did not continue his ministrations.

Trickster’s voice is sharp as he orders her to remain motionless. He lazily glides up her leg, pressing kisses from her ankle up her thigh. His hands caress her skin as he reaches her core and he nuzzles her soaked folds. She half kicks Trickster as his tongue finally teases her clit. Chuckling, he pins her in place with his hand on her stomach and continues his ministrations. She spirals higher, begging mindlessly, and his long fingers dip inside her. He feels her climax approach and freezes until the moment passes. When her breathing calms, he begins all over again. After three near climaxes, she cannot hold back a moment longer. Kashmir tumbles over the precipice with a low moan.

Trickster continues to toy with her, lazily tasting her release. She prays he has forgotten his command. Then he attacks. Dragging both her wrists up, he conjures ribbon to tie her to a table behind her head. A quick gesture removes the baton from his pocket and he moves to secure the ribbon in place.

Wary of the baton’s sudden appearance, Kashmir extends her hand to playfully block it. Her eyes grow wide once her skin touches the metal. She shrinks away as if burned.

“Crown,” her voice shakes around the unwanted word. “The baton. Don’t.”

Gently, as if pacifying a frightened animal, Trickster places the baton on the ground between them. He requests permission to touch her. When she shakes her head, he does not press further, and murmurs an incantation to restore her clothing. She shakes like a leaf under his gaze and it takes every ounce of self-control within him not to pull her close and kiss the tears away. But if he does, if he makes the slightest move against her wishes now, he will frighten her away forever.

Even the thought of losing her is enough to cause energy to crackle dangerously around them. He is thankful she is too upset to observe it.

Kashmir opens her mouth to speak. She pauses, steeling herself, and begins again, her voice fraying at the edges, “Have you always seen into my mind? Into all our minds?”

Rather than await an answer, she seizes his hand and lays it on the baton along with her own. The temptation of Kashmir’s mind is too strong to resist and Trickster tumbles into her thoughts.

The baton is a tricky thing. Trickster’s abilities arise from the baton, but the baton is also a manifestation of the world of Kooza. While he has continuously described the Koozin as his creations, they are as much extensions of him as he is an extension of the baton’s magic. And minds so tangled together can never truly be severed.

It is these ties that Trickster now sees through Kashmir’s eyes. To him, the connections are a temptation to ignore. He can read their thoughts, but he chooses not to, and until this moment has never crossed that boundary. But Kashmir cannot see Trickster’s mind, only the other Koozin. She is now aware of his ability to read them but is unaware of his refusal of that power.

What Trickster considers an ability he opts not to wield is, to Kashmir, a weapon that he likely manipulates against them all. Against, perhaps, even her.

He recoils from the baton and selects his words carefully, “I have always had this ability, yes, but I have never abused the privilege.”

“How can I possibly know that’s true?”

“Is that what frightens you, Kashmir? You do not trust that I would reject such a power?”

She opens her mouth to speak but cannot find the words. Instead, she gestures to the baton, “It is more complex than that. My mind is open to you, with my permission, just this once. Look for yourself.”

At her invitation, he takes the baton in his hand once more. He presses past her defenses and digs deeper. There it is. There is worry here, layers of doubt that have created well-worn paths through her mind. She doubts her love for him is true rather than created by his powers. His heart skips a beat for a moment on the word love, but that adoration soon evaporates. She has always suspected her love for him is another extension of her lover’s abilities. Now those fears are confirmed. And while the love remains, it is buried too deeply for Trickster to reach.

They sit in silence amidst crimson and gold pillows and their eyes meet in the soft light. Neither wishes to begin this conversation. Both know where it will lead.

“You lied, Kashmir,” Trickster whispers so softly that Kashmir could pretend she did not hear. She has never craved a condescending endearment until this moment. It is preferable to the curl of his lip as her name curdles on his tongue. “You claimed that you trusted me.”

“I trusted you until this moment.”

“That is a falsehood as well,” he snaps, ignoring her flinch at his fury. “You have never trusted me. And perhaps you were right not to. Even I cannot see where my mind ends and yours begin.”

“My interest in these games was no lie, Trickster.”

“But your trust in my ability to play them fairly was. You have always suspected I mesmerized you. I see that clearly now. You think so little of me.”

“This blade cuts two ways. You never trusted my desires were true. You have always dreaded they came from you. Subconsciously, perhaps, but the fear was there.”

“Then neither of us trusts the other. That is where we stand?”

“Does that change anything?”

“That changes everything,” his voice is a strangled whisper. Kashmir cannot bring herself to reply. She departs, unable to tolerate his hostility a moment longer. And for once, Trickster does not follow.


End file.
